


Caged

by MedusasLuck



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Prison, Solitary Confinement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 14:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3573026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MedusasLuck/pseuds/MedusasLuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate take on the episode Jus In Belo, S3. Deans POV. The demons never arrive and Sam and Dean are locked up like Hendrikson threatens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caged

He is acutely aware of his own skeleton. It feels as if he’s hanging off his bones.

They ache.

A pulsating aching. Burning like a million white hot cores buried deep inside his marrow, radiating out across his muscles and flesh.

The back of his eyes burn also. His teeth sting sharply from how tightly he keeps clenching and grinding them as soon as he forgets not to.

He’s sure his eyes would be red and his skin grey if he had a mirror to check in. He’s not sure he’d be able to recognise himself anymore, so it’d be pointless anyway.

He doesn’t even know how long he’s been here now. Lost track. He did have a thought that kept lapping at the edges of his mind, that he should devise a way to keep track, but that’s long gone now, lost at sea.

He’s pretty sure Sam will know, he’ll of kept track.

If it wasn’t for the image of his brother, brown messy hair, always in need of a cut, streaked through with sunlight, wide palms clasping either side of his shoulders, elven eyes looking directly into his soul, he wouldn’t even be sure he was real.

He’d felt like he’d been sinking, concertinaing into himself, drowning in the ferocious pounding of his own blood, when he’d felt those hands holding him up, looked into those agate eyes for the last time and heard;

“Dean, s’kay, s’kay Dean, I’m with you, always gonna be with you Dean, you’re not alone Dean, I’m gonna be with you, always”.

It had flown out of him as one desperate gush in the moment before they were pulled apart. The force and pitch of his voice mismatched by his calm, determined gaze. He’d always been a deep son of bitch.

That was the last time he had heard his name outside of his own head.

There had been a few minutes, maybe ten, fifteen even, when, after the lights flickered off and the building was plunged, briefly, into darkness before the back-up generator kicked in, that Dean thought maybe they were coming for them. Maybe they’d get a chance to fight their way out. That time though it had turned out just to be a power cut. If it had ever been anything else.

He tried not to think of that. Of Hendrickson taunting them, gleeful. Tried not to think of Bella. Or what he wanted to do to them both. Didn’t want to poison himself with the frustration of hate. But it was useless, it infected his skull all the same.

He can remember the feel of pedals beneath his feet, a wheel under his hands. Can see asphalt stretching eternally behind and ahead of him. Led Zeppelin occupies his ears as he breathes in leather, gun oil and girlie fruit shampoo. Sammy’s long legs are stretched out beside him as he rides shotgun, always, his presence a comforting warmth and he’s sure they did good things. He’s sure those people weren’t really people, had evil riding them, needed killing. They were the evil that killed his mom and that his dad raised him to fight. Protect himself and others. Protect Sammy.

He can remember a young Sammy laughing. Can remember him snorting through his nose and saying “Deeeeeeaaaann!” Back when he found him entertaining still. Before he’d started rolling his eyes at him. His smiles and laughter may have gotten rarer as the years stacked up, but they never failed to light Dean up inside. There’s so much he never said to him.

Then again, maybe the guards are right, bout him and his dad. He remembers the last thing his father ever said to him. Told him he might have to kill Sam. His Sam. The only good he’d ever known. The only love he’d ever felt. Sammy. So maybe his father was deranged. Maybe none of it was real, there were no monsters lurking in the darkness, or demons riding people. Maybe he’d been the evil out there tainting the night and his mind had lied to him this whole time.

When those thoughts overwhelmed him. When, whilst tracing the lines on his hands, blood would seep over the dried cracked-mud surface of them and a metallic taste would coat his tongue, gurgles and screams ringing in his ears as the image of him cutting into flesh would crawl through him. He’d find a motel room.

He’d focus his efforts and wade through his haunted brain, pushing aside the tormenting images and memories and clear himself a path towards a memory he could take sanctuary in. Once inside he’d close the door on the horrors outside and rest his head on the cooling wood as he caught his breath.

Sometimes he’d feel Sam come up behind him, feel his breath on the nape of his neck and his arms surround him. Feel Sam’s hands splaying out across his lungs and heart and he’d let himself sink backwards into him. Let the safety of the moment engulf him.

Other times Sam would be outstretched on the bed, waiting. He’d walk over and lie down on his back, putting his arm out in invitation and Sam would wrap himself around him and lay his head upon his chest, where it belonged. He’d look down at him, his huge little brother, looking back up at him adoringly, wearing a contented smile whilst his hand rubbed circles on his belly and he’d be aware of his own smile, his own peace.

He doesn’t understand now, can’t quite fathom why he’d ever let those moments pass, let anything else matter. Doesn’t know why he never told him just how much he loves him, he hopes he knows. He wishes they’d spoken more. He wishes he’d never opened the door and let the outside in.

He’s been hearing them on and off for a few days and now they’re here, in front of him, snarling. All dripping white fangs and black shiny claws. Cornered in the tiny cell, he can’t help but feel relieved, despite it feeling like a lump of granite has been dropped on his chest and he can’t swallow the bile back down his constricting throat. At least it was real.

And he knows his name is Dean because his brother Sam told him so.


End file.
